That I Ever Had
by Sydella
Summary: Xanxus copes with Timoteo's death in his own way.


Xanxus had never been the filial sort. Getting presents for Father's Day? Bonding with his father over sports? No way. His biological father had stuck around just long enough to impregnate his mother, then took off. His mother was insane, end of story. As for Timoteo…Xanxus's relationship with him was strained, to say the least. So when a messenger visited the Varia's headquarters and informed Xanxus that Timoteo was on his deathbed, no one could claim to be surprised when Xanxus simply shrugged and said, "About time."

The messenger said nothing further. She simply bowed and left. Xanxus took a sip of wine-his fourth glass for the day-and closed his eyes. He could feel his followers looking at him, but did not deign to speak to them. They soon left, and Xanxus presumed that no one would speak of Timoteo again until the funeral.

He was wrong, however.

Squalo refused to let the matter rest. On the day after the messenger's visit, the swordsman approached his boss. After going through their usual routine of Xanxus throwing a wineglass at Squalo's head, followed by a rapid-fire exchange of swear words in several languages, Squalo perched on a chair opposite Xanxus and said with uncharacteristic calm, "You should go."

"Go where?" Xanxus asked irritably, but of course he already knew the answer.

Squalo answered anyway. "Namimori Hospital."

Xanxus snorted and looked away. He didn't understand why someone as well-known and influential as Timoteo would choose to spend his last days in a podunk Japanese town. Then again, Timoteo and Xanxus had never thought along the same wavelength, had they?

"I don't want to," Xanxus said petulantly, aware that he sounded like a child. He didn't care. Squalo was one of the very few people who could voice disagreement with Xanxus and survive, but that didn't mean Xanxus was going to accept Squalo's suggestion.

Squalo looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes. Years of friendship-if their tempestuous relationship could be considered that-meant that he largely succeeded, though that didn't stop the two men from glaring at each other. "Look, he's still your father. No one's asking you to love him. You don't even have to _like _him. But family means everything in the mafia, right?"

Xanxus grumbled and argued and complained, but his second-in-command could be very persuasive, and later that day, Xanxus took the Varia's private jet to Japan.

Timoteo's heart rate monitor let out a series of slow but steady beeps. Xanxus stared at the wavy lines that represented Timoteo's heartbeats, wondering when they would finally stop.

He turned his gaze to the pale, thin figure of his adoptive father, lying unconscious on the sterile hospital bed. Timoteo no longer looked like Vongola Nono, the ninth inheritor of the most prestigious position in the mafia. Instead, he merely looked like a sick, dying old man. Xanxus felt something that might have been sadness start to rise within him, and ruthlessly quashed the feeling.

"Xan…xus?" Timoteo suddenly said, in a hoarse, shaking voice. Startled, Xanxus moved closer to the bed, thinking that Timoteo had regained consciousness, but Timoteo's eyes remained closed. _Talking in his sleep, huh. _Xanxus folded his arms and leaned against a wall, watching the rise and fall of his adoptive father's chest. An hour passed and, losing patience, he decided to get a drink. However, just as he was almost out the door, Timoteo's voice called out feebly. "Xanxus? Is that you?"

He froze. The first thought that came to his mind was, _I can pretend I didn't hear him. I can just leave. _But something compelled him to turn and walk slowly back to his adoptive father's bedside. "I'm here, Ninth." Even after all this time, he could not bring himself to call Timoteo "Father".

Timoteo smiled tremulously. "My boy, you've come back to visit your old man. I'm so happy." He looked at Xanxus with unmistakable affection. Xanxus had to fight an urge to look away. _Don't look at me like that. Don't pity me. _

Raising a thin hand, Timoteo beckoned him to come closer, and he reluctantly complied. Faded grey eyes stared into vibrant red ones. "I thought I'd never see you again," Timoteo said softly.

Xanxus wanted to reply with something along the lines of, _I'm only doing this out of obligation _or _I'm sure you'll be very happy to finally be rid of me, the charity case you took pity on. _For some reason, though, the words died in his throat. He settled for saying, very stiffly, "If there are any special arrangements you'd like for your funeral, let me know."

"There aren't any. Whether you bury or cremate me, I'll be dead either way." Timoteo lapsed into a coughing fit and Xanxus found himself, for the first time in a long while, at a loss for words. Timoteo's coughs eventually subsided and Xanxus gave the older man an appraising once-over. Timoteo looked as frail and sickly as ever, but his eyes now glowed with a strange light, as if he had already begun his journey to the next world.

"I have something to tell you," Timoteo said. Xanxus grudgingly lowered himself onto the foot of the bed. A brief silence ensued, then: "I was having a dream a little while ago. I dreamt that Vongola Primo said I should reconcile with you while there's still life left in me. What do you think of that?"

Xanxus shifted uncomfortably. He had always felt more of a connection to Primo's immediate successor, the second boss, due to their similar appearances and personalities, and shared ability to use the rare Flame of Wrath. At the same time, Primo was undeniably the founder of the Vongola Famiglia, the very same family that Xanxus belonged to and had once tried to lead.

Timoteo didn't seem to expect an answer, and pressed on. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. What better way to die than with my son beside me?"

Before he could stop himself, Xanxus snapped, "I'm not your son, and you know that very well."

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. Xanxus looked everywhere except at Timoteo. A leaf on a tree outside the hospital, visible from the window of Timoteo's ward, detached itself from its branch and slowly drifted to the ground. It was autumn in Japan and really quite, Xanxus thought, hauntingly appropriate. Autumn symbolises old age and impending death.

Timoteo broke the silence with a heavy sigh. "You still haven't forgiven me, have you?"

Xanxus said nothing. He suddenly felt tired. There was a time when he would have yelled, "No! Of course I haven't forgiven you!" But over the years, his rage had cooled and become a dull, simmering resentment. He still wasn't happy about Timoteo's deception-he doubted he would ever be-but had come to terms with it in his own way, with a sort of annoyed resignation.

The beeps and wavy lines produced by Timoteo's heart rate monitor began to slow down. Xanxus gripped Timoteo's hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the older man's mafia boss ring. It wasn't a son's fond farewell, not really; it was as impersonal as any interaction between a mafioso and his boss. Xanxus looked into his adoptive father's eyes for the last time.

"Ciao," Xanxus said quietly, then, forcing himself to say it, "Papa."

Timoteo smiled, an honest-to-God smile that stretched from ear to ear and made him look decades younger. Seconds later, his hand slid from Xanxus's grasp and the wavy lines on the monitor flattened into one long, straight line.

Xanxus stood staring at the old man's body-no, _corpse_-for a long time. He was still staring when medical personnel came in and wrapped the corpse in a shroud. He felt strangely empty.

The funeral proceeded smoothly. Xanxus heard typical funerary stock phrases like "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" and long, rambling speeches by various high-ranking mafiosi without really listening. For him, the entire event passed by in a blur, and once it had ended, any details of it were helpfully supplied by his followers. Life in the Varia went back to normal, except for one incident.

One warm spring day a few months after the funeral, Xanxus summoned a subordinate who was responsible for designing the Varia's paraphernalia, and tasked him with changing the slogan on the Varia flag. When the task was completed, the flag proudly proclaimed "Autonomous Assassination Team of Vongola IX."

Xanxus knew the new slogan prompted many curious and bemused reactions, but of course, not many people dared to question him about it.

Squalo, naturally, did dare to.

"Voi, the new slogan on our flag looks good," the swordsman shouted excitedly. Xanxus threw a wineglass at him; Squalo dodged it easily and sat down.

"You'll be all right, you know," Squalo said presently. Xanxus pursed his lips and didn't answer.

Outside, the Varia flag flapped in a strong breeze. Both men gazed at it for a moment, then Squalo turned to face his boss again. "Did you love him?" he asked, his tone gentler than usual.

Xanxus poured himself a glass of red wine and stared into the depths of the swirling liquid. The colour reminded him of blood, and that was just so _fitting_, wasn't it? Blood, the substance which keeps humans alive and binds families together, even in the absence of love, trust and respect, in death as much as in life. Under the watchful eyes of his second-in-command, Xanxus raised his glass in a toast-to the past, present and future.

"I didn't love him," he replied. "But he was the only father I ever had."


End file.
